


Americans Abroad

by nahco3



Series: emo Americans [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim picks Landon up at the airport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Americans Abroad

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted at my lj. thanks to ashirbaad for the beta.
> 
> I am deeply indebted to an awesome article in the New Yorker about Tim Howard (tragically, it’s not available online), and much of my information about Howard and the symptoms of his Tourette’s syndrome is from there. Any mistakes are my own. I welcome constructive criticism, since this wasn’t an easy fic for me to write and I’d love to know how I could do better in the future.

Tim Howard has had nightmares his whole life. When he was a kid, he woke his mother up two, three times a week, teddy bear under one arm, hoping to sleep with her for the night. Hearing her breathing gave him something he could focus on, and he would match his inhalations with hers until he drifted off again. As he got older, he stopped running down the hall to his mother’s room, knowing none of his siblings did. He exhausted himself on the field, came home so tired he could barely drag himself into the shower.

He washed his face first, then his body. Right arm first, then down his right leg, next his torso, finally, his left arm and left leg. The water as hot as he could stand, relaxing his muscles, until he felt like he was about to fall asleep against the cold tile. He toweled himself off the same way he washed himself, slipped on a clean pair of boxers (right leg first, then left leg) and went to sleep with the light on. It usually helped. And when it didn’t, when he woke up shaking, his heart beating like it was the middle of a game, he got out of bed and did push-ups until his arms shook and the skin on his hands was imprinted with the carpet on his bedroom floor.

\--

Landon calls Tim from Heathrow. Tim’s back from practice, sitting in his kitchen messing around on his iPhone, nothing to do.

“Fucking customs,” Landon says, without preamble. He sounds exhausted, and Tim can picture him – dark circles under his eyes, skin tanned from a bright California winter, glaring at the people ahead of him in line. Tim wonders if he’s wearing a suit or not.

Tim gets up to pace around the kitchen, his limbs itching with the need to move. He walks counter-clockwise, opening and closing each cabinet door. “How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long,” Landon says, “and boring. But I slept for most of it. Can you still pick me up when I land in Liverpool? Assuming I make it through customs before I die of old age.”

“I’ll come to your funeral,” Tim promises. “And wear a black armband for the rest of my career.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Landon says, and he would sound annoyed if Tim didn’t know him so well. “See you soon, asshole."

Tim gets to the airport ten minutes before Landon’s flight is supposed to get in, so he has time to find parking. After that, he waits around baggage claim, one hand wrapped around his phone. He shifts his weight from his toes to his heels and back again, watches the people coming down the escalator like he watches runs on goal.

He knows when Landon’s going to appear a split second before he does; he preemptively grins. He doesn’t bounce up and down, wave, or yell, because he knows Landon will scan for familiar faces with his usual efficiency, won’t waste time on confusion.

Landon makes eye contact and grins. It’s not a good look for him – it gives his eyes a maniacal glint and his face wrinkles up – but Tim’s whole body gets light, and his heart rate picks up without his permission. Landon cuts his way through the crowd, and Tim meets him halfway, pulls him into a full-body hug. Tim maybe crushes Landon’s head into his shoulder a little roughly, but Landon doesn’t seem to care.

“Good to see you, dude,” Landon says, when he pulls back.

“You too,” Tim says, left hand still gripping Landon’s shoulder, thumb stroking over his sweatshirt. “But you realize you’re going to freeze to death dressed like that.”

“Wouldn’t want to deprive you of a chance to attend my funeral,” Landon says, stepping back half a step, but not shaking off Tim’s hand. “Jesus Christ, I always forget how stupidly tall you are.”

“Maybe you’re just stupidly short,” Tim says, a beat too late, failing at the snappy retort. Landon doesn’t seem to care, just laughs.

They drive to Tim’s house in silence, Landon drifting off to sleep. Tim sneaks envious glances at him – his neck stretched back, temptingly, rough with stubble; his face slack, bags under his eyes. Landon sleeps profoundly and unconcernedly, even when everything is crashing down around him.

Tim shakes him awake when they get to his house, and helps Landon carry his bags inside. They leave them stacked in the front hall. Landon goes to take a shower, and Tim makes dinner.

Landon comes down a few minutes later, hair wet from his shower, wearing a pair of Tim’s sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts. The sweatpants drag on the floor under his feet, in a way that makes him look kind of like a little kid. Tim bites back a laugh, and Landon flips him off and sits down at the kitchen table.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, giving Tim a hopeful look.

“Pasta,” Tim says, “nothing fancy.”

Landon grins again. He looks exhausted. “Sounds good to me.”

During dinner they talk about Everton, restaurants Tim likes, the one supermarket that sells something resembling American peanut butter. They don’t talk about the MLS, David Beckham, Landon’s divorce.

That night, Landon sleeps next to him. Tim turns the lights off, and lies in the quiet dark, trying to relax. Finally, he gives up, and rolls out of bed. He does a hundred push-ups, then a hundred sit-ups. Thirty push-ups into his second set, Landon turns on the lamp and sits up in bed, giving him a bleary look.

“Tim, you ok?”

Tim finishes push-up number thirty-one and sits on the floor, looking at Landon.

“I’m fine. Just, you know,” Tim gestures non-specifically.

Landon yawns and smiles at him. The wrinkles around his eyes get a little deeper, and Tim likes it, so he smiles back. “I’ll leave the light on, you just keep at that,” Landon tells him, rolls over, and appears to fall immediately back asleep. Tim finishes his push-ups and does another hundred sit-ups, then crawls back into bed.

Landon rolls onto him without waking up, and Tim runs a hand down Landon’s right arm, then his left.


End file.
